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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22697587">Heartstrings, Red Paint</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/phosphorous/pseuds/phosphorous'>phosphorous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Verse One, Verse Two [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Given (Anime), Given (Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Author Has Never Played Guitar, Author Loves Internal Monologue, Even Worse Color Metaphors, Falling In Love, Gen, Grieving/Moving On, M/M, Many Bad Music Metaphors, Mentioned Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:02:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22697587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/phosphorous/pseuds/phosphorous</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where you can't see color until you fall in love, Uenoyama Ritsuka lives in shades of black and white melting into grey, Satou Mafuyu used to see a world bursting at the seams with color and life but now can only see the color of his own eyes, and between them, there's a Gibson that's a color neither of them can tell, a sun that burns so bright that it's shapeless, and a chance at happiness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Satou Mafuyu/Uenoyama Ritsuka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Verse One, Verse Two [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heartstrings, Red Paint</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>(Ritsuka’s first love is the guitar he receives from his father. It’s nothing but a consolation prize to distract him from the fact that his mother had either forgotten his birthday or didn’t care enough to visit and he knows it, but he still falls in love the moment his fingers curl around its sleek, untouched neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a little like having the grey sky split into two over his head the first time his fingers brush over the strings and the guitar sings a soft, staccatoed note. He’s never played the guitar before, doesn’t even know the name of the note he just played or if it’s even a note at all, doesn’t know the parts of the guitar that he’s holding onto, doesn’t know if he’s right or wrong, but the moment he brushes the pads of his soft, uncalloused fingertips against the wood, he knows it’s something special. The grey sky is only open now, pulled apart with the dark void beyond looking down on him, but he gets the feeling that he could make the broken sky rain silver stars one day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yayoi tells him that he looks stupid and that the strap of the guitar clashes horribly with his hair. Then she holds her camera up to her face, the corner of her lips pulled up in the way it always is when she thinks he’s being endearing without meaning to, and chirps, “Smile, Ritsuka!”, and he does. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s twelve years old. The world didn’t burst into color when his fingers brushed against the strings of the guitar, there was no red and blue and pink and purple and yellow and green and brown and black and orange when he played the first note, but in the picture that Yayoi took, he’s smiling like he’s the happiest in the entire world, and he’s pretty sure that it’s love.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>/////</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In Ritsuka’s world, the sun exists like a permanent flash of white against a grey sky. If the day is bright enough, it’s hard to tell whether the sun really is spherical or if it’s slowly melting out into a shapeless blob of light. He’s read in his science textbook that the sky is blue and the sun is somewhat golden and bright, and that they contrasted beautifully with the fluffy, white clouds on a breezy summer day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ritsuka has no concept of sunshine aside from the heat that burns the surface of his skin if the rays are strong enough and the way it would sometimes seem to make the side of Yayoi’s face completely white in pictures. On the first line of the text on his entrance exam, the sun’s rays are described to be orange and gold with tiny specks of light, but he only registers it as a momentary blindness when it falls on his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s charming, in its own way. Ritsuka’s father had explained it once, how the world was beautiful even without color to someone who’d made peace with the fact that they might not see it for a while. It’s easy to find charm in the dark shadows melting together on the concrete, easy to find the charm in the flowers of different shapes and varying lengths in monochrome. It might not be the world of romance and free-fall described in the trashy romance novels that his sister was fond of, but it’s stable, and it’s easy, and in it’s own way, it’s beautiful. Like an aged photograph that he’d somehow found his way into, like time was liquid around him, like the world was burning even if it was only by a few shades.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Itaya comes to school at the beginning of the year and points out that Kasai’s bag clashes horribly with her uniform. He tries to explain what blue is to a class full of soulmate-less students and says, “It’s the same color as the sky, the sea and the soda pops at the old man’s convenience store.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he pauses, his face scrunched up just ever so slightly, and he says, “It’s a very ambiguous color, actually. Sometimes it’s happy, sometimes it’s sad. It’s somewhere in between, really.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ritsuka congratulates him on finding his soulmate after the crowd around him disperses. Itaya grins, his smile brighter than a thousand shapeless suns, and says, “You know, you’re kind of a happy blue. It’s awesome.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s the same color as the sky, the sea and the soda pops at the old man’s convenience store. It’s a very ambiguous color, actually. Sometimes it’s happy, sometimes it’s sad. It’s somewhere in between, really. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That sounds dumb,” he drawls. He doesn’t care much about these things anyway, and Itaya knows it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not here, nor there, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ritsuka thinks, and when he looks out of the window, white light from the sun filters in through the glass and his vision momentarily goes pitch black as it falls directly onto his eyes. He shifts his head until he can see again and the sun’s rays are falling against the side of his face, a shadow of his silhouette forming on the solid grey of the table in front of him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Somewhere in between. That sounds like me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, and falls asleep to the sound of Itaya talking about the color of the sun as Ueki hums periodically to remind him that he’s still listening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>//////</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ritsuka meets Satou Mafuyu on a day when he’s exceptionally tired and can barely hold his eyes open long enough to focus. There are no bells that ring high above the sky when their eyes meet, </span>
  <em>
    <span>What A Wonderful World </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn’t start playing like it’s a scene out of a movie, a string doesn’t materialize from thin air and wrap itself around Ritsuka’s little finger and loops around the room until it wraps around Satou Mafuyu’s declaring them bonded for life, the world does not burst into color when their eyes meet, and it’s definitely not love at first sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mafuyu is holding the Gibson Semi like one would hold a lover on a lazy Sunday morning. His arms are weightless when they curl around its body, and he’s holding it close enough that the staccato of his heartbeat would thump against the wood if he was nervous enough. When he sits up, making space for Ritsuka on the staircase, he holds the guitar like he’s hiding behind someone far larger and more intimidating than he himself is, like he’d rather let the guitar do all the talking for him as he cowered behind it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time Ritsuka looks at someone and wonders what they </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>look like when the monochrome on them is stripped away and all that’s left is the colors that make them into who they are. He blinks when the boy makes a hurried, nervous gesture at the space next to him, and cautiously makes his way forward until he’s sitting on the stairs, maybe seven and a half paces away from him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” Mafuyu, then known as Guitar Boy, asks. His voice reminds Ritsuka of the violin he sometimes hears Kaji-san play from the upstairs music room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The name’s Uenoyama.” He can’t remember if he’s seen the other boy around, but he thinks he’d have noticed him if he had.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mafuyu doesn’t offer an introduction. Instead, he holds the guitar closer, his chin resting on one of the arcs of the wood and his arms folded around the body of the guitar, and shrinks into himself even more. The white light spills in through the transparent glass windows and slips into his hair and spills into his eyes, both of which are translucent and light. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Kinda pretty, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ritsuka thinks, and his heart constricts slightly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You could say something, weirdo,” is what comes out of his mouth, and internally, Ritsuka wishes he knew how to act around strangers. Outwardly, he gestures to the Gibson the boy is clutching to his chest. “The strings are all rusted on that, that’s why you can’t play. Why haven’t you cut them yet? Fix it already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Seven and a half steps become less than two. When Ritsuka looks up, startled by the shadow that falls on him, Mafuyu and his guitar are close enough that the sunlight in his eyes is blinding.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This,” he starts, and he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound like Kaji-san’s violin when his voice escapes past his lips and dissolves into the air like sugar melting into hot tea. His fingers curl around the neck of his Gibson, over the rusted strings that are sure to leave indents on the skin of his palm. “You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix </span>
  </em>
  <span>it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ritsuka leans back. He’s way too close, and it’s suddenly too hot, and he feels trapped as he tries to put some space between them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two steps turn into one and a half.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you fix it?” He asks again, and his eyes are bright, shiny, like the shapeless sun on a particularly vivid day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Ritsuka says, because he can. It’s just a string change, he’s pretty sure he can do it blind folded if he tries hard enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you fix it </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” There’s hope in his voice now. Ritsuka almost feels bad for what he’s about to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Now’s a bit …” he trails off. One and a half steps become two, two becomes five, and five becomes seven. When Ritsuka looks back, Mafuyu is sitting seven steps away, his shoulders slumped and chin rested back on the guitar. He seems hopeless, in a way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not your problem, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mafuyu’s cheek is pressed against the arch of the guitar. He seems sad, almost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not your problem, Ritsuka, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he tells himself. His fingers clench around the hem of his blazer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a wilted flower, Mafuyu’s shoulders slump.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck it, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ritsuka thinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s let out an irritated growl and flung himself down the stairs and out of the door, his feet resolutely leading him towards his class, where he knows his guitar case is placed behind his seat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’s thinking to himself, even as he grabs the spare strings from his case and shuffles around for the cutting pliers. Even as he storms out of his class and back to the gym, where he knows the broken guitar is, he’s grumbling audibly about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to </span>
  <em>
    <span>nap</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Ritsuka scowls, as he makes quick work of stripping the rusted strings off and fixing new ones on the guitar. Even then, the words seem to fly over Mafuyu’s head, and he’s watching him like he’s cracking open the sky above them with his bare hands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The guitar is shiny, pristine and back to its former glory within a few minutes. Ritsuka turns a little red when Mafuyu claps for him like he’s done something great, and to cover up the fact that he’s embarrassed, Ritsuka demands, “Respect me, praise me. And pay me for the damn strings!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s bright as a summer day outside. The birds are singing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mafuyu reaches out to touch the strings, and the tips of his fingers are soft, like he hasn’t played at all or hasn’t let himself get used to the guitar being his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not yet!” Ritsuka says, and Mafuyu drags his hand away immediately. He still needs to see if the strings will work the way they’re supposed to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them speak while Ritsuka plucks at the strings, soft, staccato notes ringing in the hollow air like church bells before mass on a Sunday morning. Mafuyu’s shadow falls onto the guitar when he shifts to take a good look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Ritsuka, not thinking much of it, presses the fingertips of his right hand to the tense strings laid flat against the neck of the guitar and strikes using the pick in his left hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hears, more than he sees, the way it seems to cut through the hollow silence between them and bury itself right into the spaces between Mafuyu’s heartstrings. It’s in the way he tenses up like he’s the strings of the guitar and the way a slight, soft exhale through his parted lips seems to ricochet in the air like an explosion from a thousand yards away. It’s in the soft crinkle of his shirt when he crushes the hem of it underneath the fingers of one of his hands, the way the other falls against the tiled ground, knuckles against marble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The birds are no longer singing. When Ritsuka looks up, the sunlight spills into Mafuyu’s eyes, and he looks, genuinely, like it had been the rusted strings of his heart that Ritsuka had struck the chord with.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mafuyu’s hands are cold when one brushes against Ritsuka’s neck in his haste to clutch onto his collar. They’re close enough that Ritsuka can see the moles dotted on Mafuyu’s neck as if an angel had kissed him there and left its mark, close enough that his shadow falls on Ritsuka’s face now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Teach me,” he says, and Ritsuka hears it as Kaji-san’s violin, the sad and the curious mixed into one. He swallows, like the air in his lungs is too heavy for his lungs, and repeats again, “Teach me how to play like that, will you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not love at first sight. There’s nothing but the sound of his heart slamming against his ribcage like it wants nothing more than to tear itself out and bury itself six feet deep into the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun smiles down at them through the glass windows high above the wall. The cogs are running, fate and destiny and the song they wrote together humming in the distance, and it feels, strangely, like the start of something new. </span>
</p><p> </p>
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